A Collection
by Liberty-In
Summary: They are bound together. Written in 221b format, this ongoing collection of fics will vary in theme and genre but remain T. Each 221b is separate.
1. Brilliant

**Brilliant**

They are bound together.

Not by string, not by destiny, not by fate. There was no such force involved in their meeting. Maybe such forces exist. Maybe they don't. Maybe these forces exist and other people have met each other, will meet each other, as a result.

That is not their story. Their story is simpler than that.

Their lives are not simple, but their bond is. Their interactions are layered and sometimes intentions completely fly over the other's head. They anger each other, frustrate each other, hurt each other.

Yet they stay.

They stay with each other, wait for the other to catch up, walk beside each other. Hearts ignite during the chase, adrenaline blazes through their veins, and together they feel unstoppable.

They are loyal. They are each other's exceptions.

Before they met, they were not less, or lacking, or broken. They were two people who had lives, who fought battles, who won and lost.

When they met, there were no flashes or fireworks or there-you-ares. There was surprise, showing-off and an agreement. A decision made.

After they met, they changed. Both have jagged edges that fit together, smoothing out, complementing each other like night and day. Polar opposites with similarities and differences that click together and sometimes it scares them.

But they both stay, and it is brilliant.


	2. Bending

**Bending**

He draws the cloth over his bow.

Taking his time, he swipes up and then down with all the care and grace of a feline tending to their cub.

Once satisfied, he stands and steps to the window in one fluid movement, his chair protesting the absence of a warning. He raises his violin and rests it beneath his chin, looking down onto the streetlight-showered street.

London is restless. Shapes dart about in the shadows cast by surface light, hissing and humming.

Something is building, but for now the city is blind and trembling, shuddering with each breath.

His bow slides across the violin. The first strains fill the waiting flat with wonder, desperation, hope. The scent of brewed tea lingers. The air is warm, gentle, a second skin.

His silhouette is tall and elegant and sways slightly with the ebb and flow, dressing gown following his lead in a slow dance without hesitation.

His face is divided between the darkness of the flat and the light of the streets. Eyes closed, he plays by feel, letting the music settle the noise that has been stirring through the halls of his mind palace.

The music splinters into a screech and cuts off.

He inhales, then exhales, blinking his eyes open again.

He sees his divided reflection.

He observes the city bending.


	3. Blue

**Blue**

"I _hate_ the tube," Sherlock moans.

John rolls his eyes, "Yes, Sherlock, I heard you the first fifty times."

Sherlock huffs a breath and sinks further into his seat; arms crossed, legs bent slightly. He glares through his lashes, scowling at anyone and anything around them.

John looks at the sprawled detective beside him, taking in his darting eyes and clenched jaw.

The train slows to a stop. An automated voice speaks; doors hiss and slide open. More people pile in, including a father and a wailing child in a pram.

Sherlock shoots the child a baleful look, eyes flashing.

The train doors shut and they begin to move again, imperfections on the line jostling the carriage.

"You okay?" John asks softly, scanning Sherlock's whitening lips and cheeks.

Sherlock's pulse is racing, his blood hot, "My brain is about to explode. It's the people, John. There's rubbish everywhere and I can't make it _stop_."

John frowns, then it clicks.

"Ah," John nods, "You're deducing too much at once and it's sending your brain into overload, right?"

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, taking deep breaths.

"Sherlock, look at me," John says quietly.

He does. John shoots him a flicker of a smile, leaning down until their foreheads touch.

A tanned, calloused hand weaves through dark, unruly curls.

Sherlock loses himself in blue.


	4. Breath

**Breath**

The access ladder creaks and groans, folding back up behind them. The alleyways are lit by moonlight and warm splotches of streetlight.

The two of them hit the ground running, racing through the maze of buildings.

"Go right!" Sherlock shouts, going left.

Nearing the end of the lane, he skids to a stop. John rounds the corner, gun held at the ready but no one to point it at.

He pauses, throwing Sherlock a questioning look.

Sherlock only steps carefully, hands aloft, spinning on his heels; his eyes scan the litter on the ground, the graffiti on the walls, the surrounding high windows and crevices.

A surge from the shadows, and John's gun clatters to the ground.

"No sudden movements, Mr Holmes," a gravelly voice rasps.

Sherlock stiffens. He turns and appraises the coward holding a knife to John's throat.

John's eyes say, _don't be a hero_.

"Game's over, Harvey. Let's not add murder to the list of charges and make your sentence one for life," Sherlock smiles tightly.

Harvey falters. It's all John needs to take his wrist and snap it. The knife falls with a sharp cry, and soon Harvey's cuffed and cursing by their feet.

John catches Sherlock's eye. They grin at each other like no one is watching.

Like madmen riding with the starlight, savouring every breath.


	5. Birthday

**Birthday**

The door yawns opens and John bends to pick up the post.

His boots clomp up the wooden steps of the flat as he rifles through the crisp envelopes. Bills, bills and … how surprising, another bill.

Dropping the post onto the kitchen bench, he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

Tea. He needs tea.

Filling the kettle and setting it to boil, he peeks into the living room and wonders at the stillness of the flat. He's used to silence, but the complete _serenity_ of the air within 221b has him wary.

The front door crashes open.

"John!" comes the shout.

Sherlock thumps up the stairs and halts on the landing, breathing hard. He strides into the kitchen, eyes alighting on John.

John sees the energy fizzing behind those eyes and smiles.

"Case?" John throws a brief rueful look at his empty mug.

Sherlock's lips quirk, "Coming?"

John nods and follows the detective.

They catch cabs, pick apart crime scenes, wait and pace and think. John thinks he loves this part just as much as the next.

Sherlock has his hurricane, lightning strike moment; they run and run and run.

Winding down, he sits in the back of an ambulance watching Sherlock show off and petulantly huff at the medics cleaning his grazed hands. John smiles.

He's had a fantastic birthday.


End file.
